I can see red and white lace dresses peeking out under their coats, and one of them is wearing a tiara.

We all bust it out at the same time and then start giggling like maniacs.

The devil makes an impatient gesture with the roses she’s still carrying, and the angel—Marian, I guess—quickly rejoins the other Cupids.

It’s not that I’m not totally happy—I am—but it’s almost like sometimes I have to keep running over and over in my head.

We dump our yogurt cups right there, on top of the frozen black leaves and trampled cigarette packs.

When my grandmother was still alive we would visit her, and even though I was no more than six, I remember thinking: I hope I die young.

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